{A sanctuary visit each day in Lent 2021…photos from my files, writings off-the-cuff.}

Just spend a couple of minutes gazing at that glimpse of spectacular art work. One would think such art would be found in a museum, not a church. One would be right. It is indeed a museum. But it wasn’t always. It is still known as “The Church on Spilled Blood.” To be clear, a former church.

We might assume the reference to “spilled blood” would refer to Jesus and his crucifixion. But it doesn’t. Here’s the Wikipedia description:

The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood (Russian: Церковь Спаса на Крови, Tserkovʹ Spasa na Krovi) is a former Russian Orthodox church in Saint Petersburg, Russia which currently functions as a secular museum. The structure was constructed between 1883 and 1907. It is one of Saint Petersburg’s major attractions. The church was erected on the site where political nihilists assassinated Emperor Alexander II in March 1881. The church was funded by the Romanov imperial family in honor of Alexander II, and the suffix “on [Spilled] Blood” refers to his assassination.

Unlike some of the awe-inspiring sanctuaries we’ve been in, because this is a tourist attraction there were no people sitting quietly in pews as parading visitors gaped at architecture or sculpture or other artworks intended to draw worshippers toward God. First, there were no pews. Second, the crowd within that once-sacred space was huge. Many of us were on guided tours and we were forced to keep moving lest we lose our guides in the masses. The din of the throng was like the sound of the wind, constant, and in that space, annoying. Really annoying. Pausing for prayer in that atmosphere was almost impossible.

When I think of the artists who were commissioned to depict the whole story of “salvation history” on every surface of that church, and when I imagine their pride in their work, the joy of creativity mixed with the practical labors of mixing paints, applying plaster, cleaning brushes, cutting and setting mosaic tiles in place — how devastated they would be that we today are only allowed to walk briskly through the halls merely glancing at the still-brilliant colors as light pours in from above. We only skim the testament they offer.

Were those artists well-compensated for their work, or was this forced labor? Were they believers, devoted to the faith their efforts would serve to inspire? Or, was this just a job that would lead to the next one, perhaps painting the bedroom of a Saint Petersburg merchant? Were the artists aware of the theological meaning behind each image, or…? I wonder. Perhaps no matter their motivation or vocation, they might have assumed their work would last for a century or more. Not many of us can say that of our labors.

This space was once a sanctuary, height, width, and depth set apart for divine worship. I can imagine the deep voices of Russian men chanting the liturgy. I can see the vested priests lifting the chalice high and saying the ancient words, echos of Jesus’ voice in the upper room on his last night. I imagine worshippers standing there watching it all, the shining beauty of the walls and pillars transporting them high above their daily cares, some moved to tears when awe pierces the heart. [That experience of being transported by elegance beyond one’s routine or, worse, daily drudgery reminds me of the grand movie palaces in the age of the Great Depression in the U.S. where the “show” began as one entered the theater itself. The intention was to transport the public into a fantastic grandeur, maybe a Moorish garden with twinkling stars overhead, marble columns and stained glass, rich fabrics and garish colors. The films were one thing, but the greatest escape was in the auditorium’s architecture.]

Certainly such churches as this one will never be built again. It is both impractical, and unethical. If we expect such magnificence in our modern (and modest) places of worship, the day is coming when the church usher will hand us our virtual reality headsets. We’ll put them over our eyes, adjust the earbuds, and stare ahead as 8K images take us away to heaven’s gates with angelic surround sound. Will God be waiting? I suppose that depends on the programmers.

One lesson I take away from my own ruminations on all this: when I see the overwhelming power of such beauty in that former church, I am newly aware that experiences of worship must speak to the senses, to the heart, as well as to the mind. Eyes, ears, taste, and smell. Iconology, music, the wine and the incense — and let us not forget the touch. Even in this day when touching is risky, appropriate occasions for embracing, the laying on of hands, the simple handshake…all celebrate the joy and wonder of being human, the glory of God in humanity fully alive.

Next week, on Maundy Thursday, I’ll show you something profound in its stark simplicity, and that image will awaken the senses as well. Different strokes, you see.

But tomorrow in this series, a man stands alone in the back of his church, waving something…something green.